


Something Wiccan

by LadyAJ_13



Category: Endeavour (TV), Lewis (TV)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Environmentalism, Gen, Kidnapping, Magic, Time Travel, Witchcraft, kind of, what a grab bag of tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2020-03-20 10:59:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18991315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAJ_13/pseuds/LadyAJ_13
Summary: Robbie isn't quite sure how he's ended up here - with knees that don't creak, his Sergeant, the same as always, his old mentor, younger now than any of them, and Inspector Thursday. Or why. But he has.





	Something Wiccan

Robbie wakes up with a groan. His head is banging; he's not sure why, but given the hard, dusty ground beneath him it can't be good. He sits up. A warehouse. Concrete floor. He hears shuffling to the side and tenses, but its just Hathaway, rubbing at his eyes, but otherwise seemingly unharmed.

“Alright lad?” he hears himself ask.

“Sir-” Hathaway stares at him. “Sir? Is that you?”

“Of course it's me, ye daft bugger,” he replies, rolling to his feet. And actually – wait. When was the last time he'd quite so calmly got up like that, none of the aches and pains and general stiffness of being in his late fifties? He looks at his hands. They're smooth, unlined, with none of the shadows of age spots just beginning to work their way through. He hasn't felt this good in decades. “Oh.”

Movement in his peripheral vision makes him turn sharply, instinctively blocking Hathaway, although he can feel the lad tense and ready at his back. Two other men, dragging themselves up from the floor. So someone – or something – probably took all four of them for the same purpose. Whatever that is. At least they're together, and two policemen to cover two civilians aren't bad odds.

He squints, out of habit, no need now for the glasses he usually keeps hidden. There's something familiar about the two figures... the older one... he stiffens. He looks more than a bit like the man in a picture Morse used to have. Somehow older in print than he is now, but same coat, same hat. In the photo, he'd had his arm around a woman. He shakes his head. It's impossible, but then so is the current state of his knees. He'd put money on that being Inspector Thursday... age forty-ish.

Which, if he follows the pattern, must make the other figure the missing link...

No.

The fourth man is young, younger than all of them. His hair is wild and fluffy, his suit too large, his face – he looks like a student, not a copper. But then, those eyes. They haven't changed.

“Morse?”

The man's gaze snaps to Robbie. Then back to Thursday, keenly looking over his old mentor, cataloguing. Morse clears his throat. “Sir?”

“Morse.” Thursday sounds more sure than any of them, although he's looking suspiciously at Robbie and Hathaway. “What happened, why are we-” he seems to double take. “Why do you look straight out of Carshall Newtown?”

Morse glances down at himself, then back between his Inspector, younger than he ever knew him, and his bagman, now older than he is. “I think-"

“Gentlemen,” a figure cloaked in shadow emerges, voice silky and poised. “I imagine you're wondering why I brought you all here.”

 

–

Twenty minutes later, his head is reeling, although thankfully the pounding has stopped. They're outside of time, the man stated, like that was a sensible explanation, and returned to their most vital life stage – hence why they're all remembering lives lived, but looking like a bunch of sergeants. He's a little worried about Morse; the man was never the most concerned with his health, but apparently his most vital time of life was also when it looked like a stiff breeze would knock him over. It's not reassuring. He tunes in for the end of the man's speech, but he's lost the detail of the monologue. No matter; Hathaway will have taken it all down, for use in questioning later. He turns to his sergeant-

“Lewis?”

He spins back. Huh. A questioning eyebrow arched, it seems Morse was expecting him to take notes, although no doubt he's committed every word to memory anyway.

“Sir?”

Morse rolls his eyes, and a familiar irritation sweeps through Robbie. He knows he should be glad to have Morse back – even temporarily, or whatever this is, but he can't quite bring himself to feel it. Can't hear that familiar voice, that voice he loved, really, even with all its sarcastic intonation – and its a damn good job him and James are as close as they are, because otherwise the lack of respect in front of his sergeant would grate all the more. But to somehow marry it up with the face of a – well, practically a boy. It's not happening.

“Why us?” Thursday interrupts, facing the man in shadow and lighting his pipe, the epitome of unconcerned boredom. Morse angles towards Thursday, shifting slightly in front, and Robbie stifles a smile. Who would have thought it? Morse, protective; attack dog for the older man. He might still have the mind of his Inspector, but there's something there that's picking up an older union. Or maybe he's having the same queasy disconnect Robbie feels; Inspector and bagman, simultaneously. Stuck in between.

“None of you have an issue being on the line for a cause. And you have a bond that glistens through time, tying you together. Easy to pick up the threads of you four.”

Robbie studies Thursday out of the corner of his eye. He'd always been quietly glad they hadn't met, back in the day, that Thursday had... passed away before he and Morse met. Morse's affection for the man had been clear, but there was too much in his stories that smacked of 'policing of a certain time'. Not bent, as such. But when Morse was the one calling you on sticking to the rules... not clean as a whistle either.

“A bond.” Morse doesn't sound impressed, and jabs a finger at Hathaway. “I've never even met him.” He seems to have an instant dislike for Hathaway, and Robbie is both surprised and not. They're more similar than they are different, and he'd always imagined if they'd crossed paths it would have been either be a marriage of true minds or bitter enemies. Seems the chips have fallen on the enemies side.

“But Lewis has. He connects you, like you connect Thursday.” The man smirks perceptively at Robbie, and he shifts uncomfortably. “I don't think Lewis has taken to your inspector either.”

Thursday harrumphs, and takes a drag on his pipe. “Look, we're all here. And I don't much care for the how and the why, I just want to sort all this out, because the four of us-” he gestures at each of them in turn- “don't belong here, together, that's for sure.” Robbie nods unconsciously. There's something in the air here. He's not sure how he knows, but he can feel time twisting, trying to repair itself. It leaves a sick, oily undercurrent, like blood round an open wound.

“What do you want us to do?” asks Hathaway, trying to keep him talking. How they're going to get out of here, though, if the what the man says is true – another dimension! The four of them aren't bad detectives but they're not exactly qualified for this.

“An old spell.” The man takes them each by the arm and drags them to a point of a star, drawn in chalk on the warehouse floor, and suddenly it's too late for escape plans. He's freakishly strong, freakishly fast, and when he's stumbled into place Robbie feels something bind him, like the stone's melded with his feet. Strange markings, waves like you'd see painted on seaside pottery, have entangled into his bones, cool and dark. “It'll only-

“Pagan magic,” interrupts Morse, his eyes skipping from point to point. A chalk flame has climbed to his knees and settled, glowing. “I'm fire.”

“Air,” adds Hathaway, swaying to try and free himself from the swirls entwining him.

“Water,” replies Robbie. That explains the waves at least. This couldn't really be magic, though, could it? He pinches himself, just to check, but if this is a dream the old tricks aren't working. He is here, younger than he's been for a long time, trapped by some chalk-drawn, primary school doodles. He frowns, feeling the headache start to return. It's a mind bend, this whole situation.

“I think that makes you Earth, sir,” Morse interprets the squiggles holding Thursday. “The foundation on which the other elements rest. Makes sense as you're our starting point. And he must be-”

“Spirit.” There's nothing binding the man to his star point; whether a quirk of the nature of spirit, of simply because he isn't trying to leave, Robbie isn't sure. “Very clever Morse, although I didn't realise your area of expertise ran to the magical realm.”

“Paganism is a belief system like any other.” Morse's chin raises, and the look and tone are so familiar, Robbie knows exactly where this is going. “A doctrine based on mere fantasy,” he spits, derision clear. Robbie carefully doesn't look at his sergeant.

To his surprise, the man just chuckles. “A true fire element,” he says conversationally, while starting to wave his hands in a complicated pattern. “Impulsive. I could trap you here for ever if I wished and still you snarl.” Thursday darkens, but the man just waves away his annoyance. “I won't. I'm not here to hurt you... well, not any more than is unavoidable. Now be quiet, I need to concentrate.” He flicks both hands and Robbie feels a strange muffling around his mouth. It's not uncomfortable as such, but it is restrictive, and silencing. He gropes at it, half watching Morse, Hathaway and Thursday do the same, and half watching the shadow man.

A moment of silence, and then chanting, a low drone of a voice in a strange language. Not Latin, that's for sure. He checks Hathaway, then Morse, but both look just as confused.

The water writhes around his ankles, somehow wet but dry at the same time, and abandons his attempts to pry the muffle from his mouth. He skims his hands over the watery tendrils instead, trying to grasp, but they dance away, their barest touch leaving his skin cooled.

He watches the glowing flames now licking Morse's shins. What if they burn, like real fire? Morse's gaze is troubled, his cheeks flushed with heat, sweat dampening the unfamiliar brown curls darker, hands still working at the magical gag. Their eye lock breaks; Morse resuming his relentless flick around the room for anything he's missed. The flames must be hot, but Morse isn't distressed enough to be feeling true pain. He's no master of stoicism, and the thought relaxes Robbie, marginally.

Until.

There is a flash –

\- Searing, blinding light – a sun torn apart –

He stumbles, released, and falls to his knees. The impact thuds, rattling his skull.

“Sir?” The voice is distant. Hathaway? Morse? It could have been either. It could have been him.

The floor is gritty. He's so tired.

Perhaps he'll just -

Just rest -

Just for a -

 

–

A phone is ringing. He groans, forcing his body over and a hand out from under the covers to scrabble at the table. He finds the mobile and presses the answer button automatically, just to stop the noise. His hand falls to the floor, too heavy.

“ _...Sir? Are you there?”_

The voice is so quiet. Why is it so far away- Oh. With a Herculean effort he grips the phone and brings it nearer his ear, resting on the pillow. 

“Sir?”

“Yeah, all right lad, what is it?”

There is a pause. Hathaway's voice, when it returns, is cautious. “I'm just... checking you're okay sir.”

“At-” he squints at the bedside table clock, eyes blurry with exhaustion- “seven in the morning?”

“I wondered if you'd seen the news.”

“Don't be daft, I was asleep man. As you should be,” he adds, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He could sleep for a week. An early morning wake-up is the last thing he needs. 

“It's rather interesting.”

He sighs. It's clear he's not getting off the phone until Hathaway has delivered his piece. “Out with it.”

“Climate change is reversing.”

“Reversing.” 

Hathaway has his attention now, brain awake, if sceptical. It still feels like some kind of elephant is sitting on each limb, weighing him down. What exactly did he do last night?

“Yes sir. Early days, of course, but the percentage of CO2 in the atmosphere has dropped several points. The Arctic circle is 1.5 degrees colder than it was twelve hours ago. And there has been significant reforestation around the edges of the Amazon. Unless everyone has been accidentally looking the wrong way for the past forty years, new trees have grown overnight. The newscasters are terribly excited. Their scientific experts look more than a little lost.”

So is Robbie, if it comes to that.

“I'm rather tired,” Hathaway adds. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he chokes.

“I think perhaps that warlock wasn't evil after all, sir.”

Robbie sits up. Draws back the duvet, and stares at the fine, gritty concrete dust smeared across the knees of his suit trousers. “Get over-”

“No sir. I think we have to accept that we've saved the world.” He sounds like the cat that got the cream, if a facial expression can somehow be translated down a phone line.

“So... it was real?” He can't comprehend it, even as the memories flood back. “We're talking about _magic_.”

Hathaway hums. “People have eternally been mistaken and will be mistaken.”

“Wilde?”

“Tolstoy, War and Peace.” Hathaway is quiet for a second, before, “I didn't think much of Morse, I'm sorry to say, sir.”

Robbie chuckles, and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I didn't think you would. Only thing in all of this that makes any damn sense.”

“Interesting to have a face to the name, though.” He can hear Hathaway's smirk. “Perhaps we could have a pint at the Trout later? I'm sure you have many interesting stories to tell.”

Robbie flops back down, muffling a groan at the twinge in his back. “6pm,” he agrees, pulling the duvet back up. “Take a taxi; if you're anything like me at the moment I think we'll be there a while. But I need a nap first.” He yawns. “Or ten.”

“See you at six, sir.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was borne out of an idea of getting the four detectives in a room together and seeing how they might interact, married with the fact that thanks to the events of Endeavour S1E4, Morse's healthiest time of life would have been very early on, so he'd be younger than all of them. The plot came after that, which is why it's a bit silly.
> 
> I'm afraid I've not really seen any 'Inspector Morse', so I hope the Morse/Lewis relationship isn't too off base. It was really difficult to write these four together - they all want to call each other Sir.
> 
> In terms of the Wiccan element (or Pagan, as Morse says) I know they're not interchangeable – I just doubt the detectives are that well versed in these things, and therefore might make assumptions, and could have prejudices. I'm also not an expert, so apologies if I've inadvertently caused offence; it was not meant. I did a little Google research (https://witcheslore.com/bookofshadows/witches-workshop/the-five-elements/4683/) and paired a detective with each element – they're not perfect, but to me these seemed the most natural fits:
> 
> Lewis – Water – love and emotions – healing, caring and intuitive  
> Morse – Fire – passion and motivation, creative and destructive, can be selfish – I saw this in Morse's inspired leaps of reason, working until he drops, his sometime lack of care for others  
> Hathaway – Air – rational, analytical and enjoyment of mental stimulation – this could easily have gone to Morse, but he seemed a better fit for Fire than Hathaway  
> Thursday – Earth – loyalty, responsibility, grounding – surrounded by family. As mentioned in the story, the foundation on which the other elements move.


End file.
